


entertainment's here

by b00mgh



Category: South Park
Genre: Bullying, Drunk!Craig Tucker, House Party, M/M, Milkshakes, Tweek Tweak has anxiety, Tweek Tweak is doing his best, and yes they do bring the boys to the yard, but only for flavor text, coerced drinking, craig tucker gets in fights, tweek tweak is a shut in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:54:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26885449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b00mgh/pseuds/b00mgh
Summary: everybody who’s anybody knows the favorite games of Bebe’s parties. And one of those games only happens when Clyde Donovan is drunk enough to get it started for everyone, because nobody else is allowed to start the game. So everyone is always down to grab Clyde another beer, shot, wine cooler, solo cup filled with whatever the fuck kinda jungle juice the kids of South Park High School can manufacture, or three, because when Clyde gets drunk he starts shoving beers, shots, wine coolers, solo cups, and whatever else at his best friend, Craig Tucker. Because Craig doesn’t talk much, and Clyde talks too much, and Clyde thinks it would be healthier for Craig to talk more and Clyde knows Craig talks more when he’s drunk and when Clyde is drunk he loses the rationality to be able to understand that Craig doesn’t want to talk more so Clyde just fills Craig with alcohol and Craig just keeps drinking because Craig doesn’t know how to tell Clyde ‘no’ very well when Clyde is drunk.And everyone else loves to watch.Tweek thinks that kind of game is sick.
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Comments: 14
Kudos: 81





	entertainment's here

Everybody who’s anybody goes to the parties hosted by Bebe Stevens. Her house might not be as big as Token’s, but she’ll let you drink and smoke weed in the house and Token won’t. Everyone says Token got really lame once he set his mind on med school– started talking some dumb shit about how “smoking  _ anything _ can really mess with your lungs” and “alcohol is so bad for you, and it makes you act stupid.” Well, Eric Cartman said that, but Cartman can say anything loud enough for you to think it’s everyone. 

But everybody who’s anybody goes to the parties hosted by Bebe Stevens every Saturday night. And everybody who’s anybody knows the favorite games of Bebe’s parties. Not that Bebe really likes beer pong in the dining room or strip poker in the basement or jackbox in the living room or pressuring people to drink the moment they walk in, but she likes people telling her that she hosts the “coolest parties, Bebs, really.” Or, Heidi Turner said that, but Heidi can say anything with enough confidence for you to think it’s everyone. 

But everybody who’s anybody knows the favorite games of Bebe’s parties. And one of those games only happens when Clyde Donovan is drunk enough to get it started for everyone, because nobody else is allowed to start the game. So everyone is always down to grab Clyde another beer, shot, wine cooler, solo cup filled with whatever the fuck kinda jungle juice the kids of South Park High School can manufacture, or three, because when Clyde gets drunk he starts shoving beers, shots, wine coolers, solo cups, and whatever else at his best friend, Craig Tucker. Because Craig doesn’t talk much, and Clyde talks too much, and Clyde thinks it would be healthier for Craig to talk more and Clyde knows Craig talks more when he’s drunk and when Clyde is drunk he loses the rationality to be able to understand that Craig doesn’t  _ want _ to talk more so Clyde just fills Craig with alcohol and Craig just keeps drinking because Craig doesn’t know how to tell Clyde ‘no’ very well when Clyde is drunk.

And everyone else  _ loves _ to watch. Because there isn’t much to do in South Park, Colorado, so on Saturday nights it’s sitting in Bebe’s kitchen watching the resident asshole start to talk about his feelings and making fun of him while he’s too drunk off his ass to know which way is up or that it’s his own mouth spewing word vomit. And everyone keeps Clyde just as hammered so he won’t defend his friend. And nobody lets Token in at the door because he’s a “med-school-piss-baby.” So it’s just Clyde too hammered to know he fucked anything up and Craig too hammered to know what he’s saying. And they keep shoving drinks at them until they’re blackout drunk on the kitchen linoleum and won’t remember a goddamn thing in the morning. And it’s a fun game for everyone else. And it’s every Saturday night at Bebe’s house party. 

The difference on this Saturday– December 3rd– is that Kenny McCormick, who always shows up to do nothing but play strip poker in the basement, has brought his boyfriend, Leopold “Butters” Stotch, and Butters is new to parties because his parents are shut-in freaks who don’t ever let him leave the house. Kenny’s been working the Stotch folks for months. They’re more homophobic than anyone in town, which also makes them the most blind when Kenny saunters into their house calling himself “Leo’s buddy from school” and stays for a  _ lot _ of sleepovers. Kenny uses his most polite English– literally, not shitting you, he doesn’t even say ‘hell’ in that house or within 100 feet of it– and talks to them about how horrible his home life is and “wow you are  _ such _ wonderful parents, looking out for Leo like you do.” Bastards have no clue their son is gayer than a frog turnt on GMO water at a post-rain June parade, or that the  _ darling _ best friend is his boyfriend. The Stotches are  _ certain _ that their son is at a study group at Bebe Steven’s house right now. That’s what that sweetheart Kenny McCormick told them anyway.

But no. Butters is at his first party, and he’s nervous. So nervous that he brought the only other kid from their grade that hasn’t been to a Saturday night party at Bebe’s– Tweek Tweak. 

Nobody ever invites Tweek Tweak because, honestly? The dude’s a little weird. I mean, he’s worked on his speech impediment, but he’s still got that special note from the administration where teachers have to treat him nice because his anxiety never really got right. He sits in Mr. King’s classroom at lunch, alone. Not even Mr. King eats lunch in the classroom. Nobody ever willingly works with him for anything in class or outside of it. Butters only knows him because they were randomly assigned to work together for a Government project last week and Tweek really helped out a lot, so they exchanged phone numbers. And now Tweek is coming with Butters who is coming with Kenny to Bebe’s party because neither Tweek nor Butters has been to any of Bebe’s parties, but Kenny really wanted to bring his boyfriend and Butters was too nervous being the only new person there and Tweek was free this evening because, honestly, nobody knows what’s up with that kid’s parents. 

And here they are. 

Butters is a theater kid, and naturally good with people whether by charisma or natural dumb luck, so he fits in like his nickname on toast. Now, at something like ten, Butters is downstairs with Kenny playing strip poker and bluffing just right so Kenny loses on purpose. 

Now, at something like ten, Tweek has sunk himself into a corner in the kitchen to pet Bebe’s cat, Fried Pickles. Fried Pickles is on top of the fridge, and Tweek is tall enough to reach up there and pat her head– what can he say? Puberty hit Tweek Tweak like a freight train, just upwards. He’s the second tallest kid in their grade. 

Tweek doesn’t notice it at first. He just notices that Clyde’s hand is always occupied by a drink. He wrinkles his nose at that– alcohol just  _ tastes _ nasty. Somebody tried handing him a styrofoam cup of something at the door, and he would have just taken it because of the shock value of enthusiasm with which it was forced at him, except Kenny’s been here before and has a good head on his shoulders so he shoved the styrofoam cup back at the sender with enough force to make it spill down the front of the kid’s shirt. He’s staying away from people after that. It’s easy enough to osmose the alcohol from how heavily the smell of it permeates the air anyway.

But he notices more and more as the night goes on that people keep handing Clyde drinks. I mean, Clyde seems to enjoy the convenience of not having to go to the front sitting room to get the drinks himself, otherwise Tweek might be more concerned. But Clyde’s words start slurring more and more, and Craig starts fielding more and more of the questions directed at Clyde, and those drinks that had been in Clyde’s hands before start making their way into Craig’s– but it’s different. Craig doesn’t  _ want _ the drinks. While Clyde had been laughing, agreeing, and accepting the drinks enthusiastically, Craig seems to be only sipping at them when Clyde hands him another and he hasn’t touched the previous one. It’s different because Craig doesn’t  _ want _ to drink, and Tweek knows, at least in passing, who’s at this party, and he knows the way they smile when they take advantage of someone because that someone is usually Tweek. So he can see right through the elaborate ruse of the game and he can see, as Craig starts leaning more and more into the faux-granite countertop, those intoxicating, venomous smiles from the gathering crowd. All hyenas– every one of them– raising their hackles for the pounce as Clyde begins to teeter into the edge of lucidity and Craig’s blinks start falling out of time. 

Fried Pickles purrs beneath Tweek’s untrimmed nails, blissfully unaware that Tweek is getting more and more anxious. He’s always been bad at being a bystander. Fight, flight, or freeze, and he seems to always pick wrong. 

“Craig, here, drink this,” Esther presses another cup into Craig’s hands, and he takes it with slippery fingers. 

Clyde says something in a voice too loud for Tweek to bother hearing or processing. Clyde is still having a great time. But not Craig. Craig is staring into the red solo cup, filled halfway with jungle juice from the big bin by the front door, like he wants to drop it. Why doesn’t he? Tweek knows of Craig, in passing– fuck,  _ everyone _ knows  _ of _ Craig, at least in passing. In any other scenario, Craig would flick the solo cup right over Esther’s head, or punch Bradley Biggle between the eyes for pouring the damn thing in the first place. Not one single goddamned person in the whole of South Park can tell Craig Tucker what to do and get away with it. But he just stares into the fruit-punch-and-gasoline concoction in the warped plastic cup. That’s the fun of the game, Tweek supposes. 

“Come  _ on _ , Tucker,” Red pushes, harshly. 

Craig keeps staring into the cup. He wobbles on his feet, even though the counter behind him is taking most of his weight. 

Fuck it. What’s Tweek got to lose? Kenny and Butters? Those assholes only brought him in because they needed someone to stand on Butters’ other side. Fuck those guys, they don’t need him. But for some goddamned reason, the school asshole does, so fuck them and fuck Clyde and fuck Red and Esther and Scott and Bradley and fuck Craig and  _ fuck _ Tweak motherfucking Tweak.

“H-hey, tha-that’s– he doesn’t want to drink it,” Tweek asserts to a group of about eight teenagers, none of whom give a single fuck that he’s even drawing breath as a human being right now. 

“Shore ‘e does!” Clyde sings, “Right buddyyy?” the words blur like washable markers on wet paper. 

Craig opens his mouth and closes it awkwardly, like the taste of nearly speaking doesn’t agree with him. 

“No, he d-doesn’t,” Tweek reiterates. “And you need to sober up too, Clyde.”

Scott steps in here, the picture of mollifying and placating. He gives Clyde a sly, sideways look that Clyde takes to mean he’s in the right, because he’s too drunk to tell that the look is also vaguely mocking. To Tweek, Scott says, “Sit back, man– relax. It’s just the entertainment,” with a conspiratorial hand on Tweek’s shoulder. But Tweek doesn’t sit back. Doesn’t lean forward or anything either– honestly he’s too nervous to move for a minute, being coerced so inclusively. 

But Esther takes his petrification as obstinance. “Aw, Tweekers thinks he’s tough because he grew a few inches?” Esther croons derisively.

“Shut the fuck up, Esther,” Craig barks– too loud and too sharply for it to have been his intended, nonchalant tone. 

But it does get Esther to back off, and everyone else. “Come on guys,” she mutters, “I don’t wanna be seen with that fucking weirdo.” She leaves to play beer pong in the dining room, and everyone else follows her or disperses otherwise. Even Clyde wanders downstairs for strip poker. Didn’t even realize that he should check on Craig, who watches Clyde go, stares at Tweek for several seconds too long, and then downs half of his solo cup like a shot.

“Y-y-you shouldn’t drink that!” Tweek screeches.

At which Craig slams the solo cup down on the counter hard enough to crush the cup a little, fuschia drops of jungle juice sloshing onto the faux-granite. “Ya wan’ me to drink, ya  _ don _ ’ wan’ me to drink–  _ whaddaya want me to do!? _ ” 

“ _ GAH!! _ ” Tweek jumps a solid three feet back, into the archway leading to the living room. Everyone there is too busy playing one of the jackbox games on the TV to notice him, but he feels self-conscious anyway, and his spine curls uncomfortably at imagined hyper-awareness of his every move. Fuck, shit, why did he intervene!? Craig Tucker could lay any of those kids flat in two seconds if he was really being coerced, or even thought he was; he didn’t need Tweek’s help with that. What was Tweek going to do with five feet and ten inches of drunk asshole anyway!?

“Is it loud in here?” Craig mumbles– and, for the record, if it was very loud at all in the kitchen like it was in any other room, Tweek would not have been able to hear Craig from even a few feet away like he is. But the kitchen is quiet with only the three occupants– Tweek in the entryway, Craig swaying against the counter, and Fried Pickles looking ready to jump off the fridge– so Tweek can hear Craig perfectly fine, even at a mumble. “I don’t wanna be here.”

“Th-then let’s… leave?” Tweek offers, but he doesn’t move until Craig starts trying to wobble away from the counter. “Ah! D-do y-y-you need help!?”

“Not a damn thing,” Craig replies– with confidence, as if that’s a coherent reply to give. Tweek takes it as a general negative when Craig gets his feet under him and begins managing walking just fine, and instead focuses on leading him to Bebe’s front door. Bebe herself is downstairs at strip poker, winning just about every hand, so she doesn’t see them out, but Kyle Broflovski stops them– drunk off his ass and being chased down by Wendy and Stan, who are only marginally more sober– by the entrance.

“You guys believe me, right!?” Kyle cries.

Tweek stutters his way through half an apology before the other two members of the relationship catch up, both yelling a convincing, slurred chorus of “I’m sorry,” and “We believe you,” and “Come baaaaack!”

So Tweek steers Craig out the door by the shoulder and they both begin the walk to somewhere else in South Park. 

“L-let’s go– get you home,” Tweek offers, and begins to lead the way to the bus stop where Craig usually gets on and off for school.

But Craig stops halfway down Bebe’s driveway and screams, “No!” so Tweek also stops and stares blankly while Craig continues, “I don’ wanna go home. Don’ make me.”

And what is Tweek supposed to do? Say he has to? Tell Craig Tucker what to do? And get his fucking neck broken? Yeah, no. But it also might not be a great idea to let a drunk asshole wander South Park unsupervised. 

Well, not like Tweek had anything better to do tonight (if he did, he wouldn’t have shown up here in the first place to eventually lead to him needing to make this decision). Time to follow a drunk asshole around South Park, and try not to pee himself. 

“Okay,” Tweek stammers, hesitantly scooting back up the driveway, “Where are w-we going then?”

Tweek realizes there must be a lightswitch somewhere behind Craig’s eyes, because they certainly light up, even if he doesn’t say anything besides, “the fuck outta ‘ere!” in an indiscernible tone of voice. Maybe it’s happy, maybe it’s just a manic brand of angry. Tweek certainly doesn’t know. “Le’s get  _ milkshake!” _

“Huh!?” 

So now, sometime near eleven on Saturday night, Tweek is following a plastered Craig down the street– in the middle of the street– to what Craig assures him is a  _ great _ milkshake place. Which is fine. Tweek is anxious about following such a violent person to an undisclosed third location (but that’s mostly fine. Tweek’s pretty sure he can at least run away fast enough to secure his own safety, since he has much longer legs than Craig– not that he spends a lot of time looking at Craig’s legs! Just an observation!), but what’s really making Tweek anxious is how Craig  _ won’t walk on the goddamned sidewalk. _ He’s just prancing through the street! I mean, it’s late, sure, but there are cars once in a while! A drunk-driving Randy Marsh almost hits Craig head-on, but both of them swerve at the last second and Randy hits a trash can instead before speeding off. 

“ **_GAH!_ ** ” Tweek screeches and jumps up and falls to sit on his ass on the curb. Fuck it. Fuck this. Fuck Craig Tucker, he can wander his own dumb ass to the alleged milkshake place, and Tweek doesn’t have to go along with it. Fuck. 

“‘S wrong?”

“Y-y-you’re gonna get-t hit b-by a  _ CAR! _ ” 

“‘S that why’re pullin’ on yer hair?”

“Y-y-y-yes!!”

With all the sophomorism of the inebriated, Craig considers this, taking so long to muddle through the situation in his head that by the time he’s come to a conclusion about it, Tweek has had time to recover from his mini-meltdown. “Aight. No more street-walkies fer me.”

“What?”

“I will  _ not _ walk in da streets, I told you.”

The logic makes no sense to Tweek, but he’ll take it anyways. At least this way Craig won’t be hit by a speeding car at eleven on Saturday night with nobody around but Tweek and Craig won’t  _ die _ and the car won’t speed off to avoid police suspicion and Tweek won’t have to watch a living body become a dead one on the greasy, potholed pavement. “Th-thanks.” He stands up, and they keep walking. 

“I told ya there was a mil’shake place here!”

“I never said there wasn’t,” Tweek retorts. It’s a diner– more of a truckstop, really, which is why it’s open so late– but the sign does read ‘Milkshakes.’ Not ‘The Best Milkshakes In Colorado’ or ‘Mama’s Milkshakes’ or even ‘We Have Milkshakes!’ Just ‘Milkshakes.’ And the neon letters are crusted with road salt on the bottom, despite being seven feet off the ground. There are two trucks in the parking lot– one of them has the lights on inside, and a man can be seen talking animatedly on the phone, the other is dark, whether the trucker is sleeping or inside getting food. 

When they step inside, Tweek realizes how fucking cold it was out there. In the way that a boiling frog doesn’t recognize the heat, he hadn’t felt the cold until the crispy, rusty air from the heater wafts through his flannel and the shiver he had inadvertently suppressed before runs up his spine. Two thin layers had been enough for an indoor house party, but not a twenty-minute walk through Colorado in December in the middle of the night. Craig, however, was intelligent enough to wear a thick jacket, which he peels off frustratedly when they slide into opposite sides of a booth. 

Several minutes later (not because he was busy, but because Inuyasha was on Adult Swim on the TV above the counter, and he was waiting for a commercial break), the waiter planted himself at the end of the table, looked between the two of them, sighed, and asked, “You kids can pay, right?”

Craig growls, “‘M not a kid!”

Tweek nods. “Y-yes. I– we can!”

After several skeptical seconds, the commercial changes on the TV and the waiter decides giving them a hard time isn’t worth it if taking this order takes longer than Inuyasha’s commercial break. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Mil’shake!” Craig’s eyes are still lit up, but the light flickers when the waiter turned to Tweek.

“Is this guy really your friend? If he’s pressuring you into buying him something–”

“He’s not!” Tweek barked. It catches everyone present by surprise– even the trucker who has now entered the bar and started staring at them from the doorway. Tweek lowers his voice to continue, “He’s really not. H-he’s a– uh– he’s drunk– b-but he is my friend!” The waiter still doesn’t look convinced, but the Adult Swim logo is drifting across the screen, and the soothing announcer’s voice is saying  _ ‘be right back’ _ so when Tweek asks, “What flavors do you have?” he shrugs.

“Vanilla. Chocolate. Strawberry, but we’re out of the syrup.”

Craig visibly brightens at vanilla, so Tweek says, “We’ll have two vanilla milkshakes, please.”

“How’d you know I like vanilla?” Craig growls. It might have been intimidating if his head wasn’t sinking down to the table and he wasn’t asking about how Tweek knew which flavor of fucking milkshake he liked.

“Dude, you almost smiled when he said they had it. It would be harder not to notice.”

With a distinct and confused frown, Craig asks, “Do I really not smile?”

Of course, this question knocks Tweek completely off guard. “Um, p-pretty much never,” he replies. 

“Not even when I get the last vanilla milk at lunch?”

“Dude, gross, you actually drink the milk!?”

“The vanilla one is good!”

“You can’t be serious.”

At the next Inuyasha commercial break, the waiter brings them their milkshakes. There’s way more whipped cream on top than Tweek likes– which isn’t much, he doesn’t like whipped cream at all. 

Craig’s dumb, drunk ass, on the other hand, is trying to use his straw to spoon the whipped cream into his mouth. Tweek stares for a minute. It’s certainly a  _ process _ . It’s… kind of endearing? You can’t call Craig Tucker cute, especially not when he still has the fading bruises and road rash from some fight or another still healing on his face, neck, arms, and fists, but when he’s looking like an idiot at an almost-empty truck stop trying to get as much whip cream into his mouth as he can with a straw? It’s a little hard not to. If nothing else, the contrast drags a little grin onto Tweek’s face. 

He sips his own milkshake without touching the whipped cream on top. As far as milkshakes go, it’s not bad, but it’s not as good as the one Tweek could make at the shop with that fancy new machine they got when he was still in middle school. They’re definitely using just syrup and milk– the lazy way– instead of milk, heavy cream, vanilla extract, sugar, a touch of powdered sugar, and a little bit of ice– Tweek’s way. 

Either a light slap of sobriety or a brain freeze reaches Craig by the time they’re finishing their milkshakes (one episode of Inuyasha later), and he lays his head flat on the table and groans. It might be the sobriety, if the way his face goes a little stony is an indicator, but Tweek’s no expert. 

“Want my whipped cream?” he asks. He pushes the mostly-empty cup across the table until it taps Craig’s with the signature dull  _ tink _ of thick, cheap glass. With one eye (the one that isn’t pressed into the table), Craig glares at Tweek suspiciously. Definitely more sober than before. That’s the expression the Craig Tucker that Tweek knows from school wears. His spine hikes itself up anxiously. “I-I don’t– I, uh, whipped cream isn’t m-my favorite?” he squeaks. 

Slowly, as if Craig expects Tweek to rescind his offer, or maybe lash out at him, he accepts the pile of whipped cream that has migrated to the bottom of Tweek’s glass. With more careful movements, he resumes his straw-spoon method until Tweek’s whipped cream is gone too. During one commercial break or another, the waiter has dropped off their check– a total of seven dollars even. Tweek leaves a ten dollar bill to include tip, the waiter takes it, and then leaves them alone to watch his episodes behind the counter in peace. 

“I’ll pay you back,” is the first thing Craig says in the whole forty minutes since their milkshakes arrived at the table.

Tweek blinks. It was $3.50. Who gives a shit. This is very possibly the cheapest milkshake in town. “D-don’t worry about it, dude.” 

Craig grumbles under his breath and glares, but lets his head fall back to the table and doesn’t press it. 

“D-does–” Tweek stammers, “Is your h-head hurting? You should probably drink some water.”

Another glare emerges from the face barely visible beneath Craig’s hat. “I’m fine.” 

“Oh, o-okay.” 

They watch Inuyasha with the waiter and the trucker for another few minutes. The waiter must love this show, because he keeps cursing out some member of the show’s creation team, by name, to tell them that “Kagome coulda killed him in  _ one hit _ , if you’d fucking un-nerf her!” 

Tweek giggles a little when he says stuff like that. Partly because he can kind of see what the guy is saying, and partly because he has very little clue what the guy  _ means _ . When his eyes drift back to Craig, he’s being watched. To cover for his slip-up, Craig asks, “Why’d you leave the party?” It’s not as sharp as Tweek expected, more nonchalance than violence. 

“You needed help, I g-guess–?” It feels like the wrong answer.

Apparently, it was the wrong answer, because Craig immediately sits up and snaps, “I didn’t need  _ shit _ .”

Which was also the wrong answer, because Tweek flinches in his seat so hard he bangs his head on the particle-board frame of the booth seat. “Shit,” they both mutter, for very different reasons. 

Craig tries again. “Why are you still here?” But that comes out too fast because he’s kinda self-conscious now so Tweek takes it wrong and his eyebrows wrinkle like he just can’t fucking get what Craig is talking about.

“What the fuck, man? I j-just–” And Tweek sighs, stands, and heads back outside at just past midnight on Saturday/Sunday. 

Which, of course, wasn’t what Craig  _ meant _ by that question at all. And the large majority of him wants to leave it there, but the small part of him that has some alcohol left ignores that larger part’s impulse control and he’s following Tweek outside without a single clue why, what he’s supposed to say, or if he even really wants to. 

“Wait– shit– dude, I didn’t–” Craig shoves his arms into the holes of his coat haphazardly. “I just meant why didn’t you go back to the party?”

“What?” Tweek actually stops– which is a surprise to both of them (and the trucker, still inside, who does not like Inuyasha and is watching them through the window to try and drown out the cartoonish screams). “W-why would I go back there? I don’t even know anybody. All anyone was doing was drinking.” 

“That’s what it is,” Craig says, “why else would you show up?”

“I–!” Tweek almost tries to defend his choice, but he stops while he’s ahead. “I dunno. Butters asked me to come. I didn’t have anything else going on.” It takes a minute to work up the courage, but when he does, Tweek asks, “Why were you there?” and, before Craig can get mad, he continues, “I-it’s– you just– you didn’t look like you were having fun either.”

Craig doesn’t answer. He shrugs, but that’s not an answer. “You got anything else to not do tonight?” he asks instead. When Tweek doesn’t answer, he starts walking. Tweek almost thinks that’s it, and he’s supposed to go home now, but Craig turns around to say, “That means let’s go, dipshit.”

“You’re awfully trusting for a guy who takes anxiety meds with lunch,” Craig comments, now that they’re in the middle of the woods and the potential to make Tweek anxious has never been higher. 

Unfortunately, Tweek doesn’t take the bait. “Y-you’ve had plenty of chances to k-kill me already.” Which isn’t as fun. But fuck it. This isn’t about freaking him out anyway– it’s about paying him back. “Where are we going anyway?”

Craig considers whether or not to answer him. “Dunno,” he shrugs noncommittally. “A place.”

When they reach the spot, Tweek almost walks right past it, but Craig drags him back by the collar and shows him the carved-out footholds in the trunk of the cottonwood tree. He climbs up to the platform he and Kenny built in Freshman year when their little sisters begged for a clubhouse. It’s not much– just a flat(ish) floor and some half-walls so a couple of middle-school girls wouldn’t fall off. There’s still the pink fabric the girls stole from somewhere and strung up in the branches, but now it looks more brown from exposure. At some point, either Craig or Kenny has moved their fraying basket full of chalk and picnic blankets to one corner, because the girls never come here anymore. Now they hang out in the club rooms at school– but they had been young, once, unsure of any place being safe or their own because, so far, no place had been. That mindset has just been handed up to their brothers now. Or maybe it was inherited from them, and it’s something you can’t grow out of the way girls grow out of clubhouses in cottonwood trees. But who gives a fuck about all of that. For now, Craig is using it. That’s all. 

The platform is almost at the top of the tree, and since all the leaves are dead and gone this time of year, nothing but needle-branches block their view of the small-town stars. Any of the light pollution from South Park’s extremely limited nightlife drowns the tiniest, farthest stars, leaving their view just short of the cosmic rainbow that the milky way can provide in some places. 

Still, not bad. 

Tweek actually gasps. He never goes out at night because he never has anywhere to go at night, so this feels like some sort of baking-soda-vinegar-volcano to him– cracking a glowstick in a dark closet– shaking a water bottle with a highlighter ink sponge in it– flicking paint onto a canvas with a toothbrush and then dousing it all in salt– it’s not just surprising it’s  _ electrifying _ . Even if it’s just the sky. Some people never look up. Craig pulls out a thick picnic blanket from the girls’ old basket and lays it on the widest section of the platform to lay down on. It’s still not super wide though, so he hadn’t been expecting Tweek to just… lay down right next to him. But, to Tweek, apparently, this is natural. He’s still too busy staring at the stars to even notice that there’s less than an inch of space between them. 

Craig tries not to think about that. Tweek Tweak is just weird. Everyone knows that. To distract himself– or maybe to snap Tweek out of it enough to make him self aware– Craig pulls out his phone. Turns on some music that’s way too loud to be soft. Tweek doesn’t notice it until that first song is over. 

“What did anybody do before they invented phones?” Tweek whispers. “I turn mine off sometimes– it’s so quiet.” Craig doesn’t answer. Tweek continues, “You ever set your favorite song as your ringtone? I get too scared. What if I hate the song after a while? What if I sleep through it because I like it so much? Ya know? There’s so much shit to be afraid of.” Craig doesn’t answer. Tweek keeps talking, “Except, the stars are nice here. Can’t really be scared of them. They’re too far away to really hurt anything down here. The moon’s pretty close, but what’s big enough to fuck with the moon? Nighttime is nice– it’s daytime you gotta watch out for. The sun’s already trying to kill us.” Craig doesn’t answer. Tweek asks, “Hey, Craig, why did you take me here?” 

Craig shrugs, and the movement reminds Tweek of how close they are. He shivers. This close and he still feels cold. “Dunno,” Craig answers. 

Tweek keeps rambling, “I just feel like it would have been easier for you to go home after the diner– n-not that I’m complaining! This place is nice– J-just… why would you take the trouble–?”

And Tweek is interrupted by Craig’s hand over his mouth. “I want to kiss you,” he says plainly, and he moves his hand, and he gives Tweek plenty of time to respond, and all Tweek can find in his vocabulary is a nod, and he rolls over and the kiss is so much softer than either of them could have expected between their sharp edges and inexperience and Craig’s healing road rash on his cheek. Craig’s hat falls off. Tweek’s hands shake where they meet Craig’s neck and jaw. Back to the baking-soda-vinegar-volcano– the sound of the oven timer– dumping a whole bottle of shampoo into the community pool and watching the bubbles rise– running your fingers over a candle’s flame and knowing it won’t hurt you. They’re both kind of surprised the stars are still there, still just shy of the milky way, when they look back up. 

“Thanks,” Craig whispers, “for the milkshake. And, ya know, the rest of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> ahaha i thought i posted this like a month ago but like here u go i hope u enjoy <3 
> 
> if u wanna see where im going next, find me on tumblr: tumblr.com/blog/bmgh-writing  
> if u wanna see memes about south park in addition to seeing where I'm going next, find me on tiktok @cakelesbian  
> (either of these sites have links related to money which I am not allowed to post here but please i am broke-- if u want commissions I'll do those too, just contact me idk man)
> 
> as always, Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy!! :DDDDDD


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